Of Courtesans and Consolation
by ConcertiGrossi
Summary: PreDMC.  Love really complicates business relationships.  Whorrington oneshot.


Author's Notes:

More backstory for a larger fic. It's a standalone piece, born of speculation on the details of James Norrington's life before the movies.

DISCLAIMER: Norrington and Elizabeth belong to the Mouse. Everyone else is mine.

With thanks: PinkSiamese and Rexluscus on Livejournal rock as betas.

* * *

It started so simply. These things always do. 

She'd met him for the first time after she'd only been a week at the Maison du Soliel Se Levant (Sol-Se-Levant, for those in the know). He'd come in with a few of his friends, determined to drink and celebrate his promotion to Captain. She'd served them bottle after bottle of a very good brandy; so much that he'd fallen asleep before completing the deed with the Incomparable Delilah. But he'd been a very good sport about it, and paid her anyway for her trouble.

It was some time before he returned. He'd been sent to engage the Spanish off Hispaniola and had come back covered in glory: three prizes to his name, and, though this wasn't until later, a medal. That night, they'd all drunk to his victories. But while he might have been the man of the hour, he still hadn't gotten paid, and wasn't yet canny enough with such matters to know to ask the Madam for a discount. And she was still the cheapest girl in the house.

All she could think, when she got him alone, was how much he'd aged in those weeks. He had deep lines in his brow and around his eyes that she could have sworn weren't there before. She reached up to smooth those lines with her fingers, and he'd kissed her hand. He was just tired, he said. It had been a hard voyage. She could well believe that, at any rate. He was a much gentler than a lot of her clients, and though it was against the rules, she let him sleep for a little bit, afterwards. She took some pride in the fact that those lines disappeared as he slept.

She'd made an impression on him, though she never quite knew how. She certainly didn't have any more art to her work than her sisters in the trade, but he asked for her every time after that, even after the money came in and he could afford the best in the house. When he was in Port Royal, though that wasn't for very many long stretches of time, he would visit her once or twice a week, and she could be assured of a visit every time his ship made her home port. Some nights, it was hard and fast: an anguished man desperately reaching for peace, and some nights, it was soft and gentle, as if she were his lover and not his whore. And some nights, it was entirely an afterthought; what he'd come for was a listening ear. As time went on, she learned a lot about the inner workings of the Royal Navy.

The night he told her about Elizabeth, her heart broke. Her sisters were sympathetic, but the Madam was not. "You've been told a hundred times, don't get attached. The Quality don't marry whores. Not even expensive ones. You've only yourself to blame." He'd told her like he was telling his best friend, like he expected her to be happy for him. And she'd tried to be. She really had. She'd even given him lessons on things to do to keep his future wife's mind from straying to other men. But, after he'd gone, she wept so piteously that even Delilah came to try to comfort her. "He'll be back, dearie. In a few months, he'll be tired of virgin cunny, and he'll come to get some from the experts. You'll see. They're all the same."

"Not this one." she whispered under her breath, and clutched the aquamarine brooch he'd given her as a going-away present.

* * *

It was quiet in the house, this particular morning. The girls had gone off to see some famous pirate get hanged at the Fort, but she wasn't really in the mood, so she'd stayed behind. She bathed and made herself ready for the day, a routine that was interrupted by Jezebel's sudden, tumultuous entrance. 

"You are NEVER going to believe what just happened…"

* * *

Friend or foe, it didn't matter. The girls gathered around for a Council of War. 

"Do you believe that? Right in front of the whole town!"

"She's a wretched little brat, she is. I can't imagine treating a good man that way…"

"Do you really think he'll come here tonight?"

"La! Of course he will! Consolation is our stock in trade."

It was sure to be the central topic of gossip for several agonizing weeks, she thought bitterly. "I can't see him." she said in a quiet voice that cut through all the chatter. "I can't do it all again. Mother was right: I got too attached."

Delilah narrowed her eyes. "He's going to ask for you."

"Tell him I'm sick. Tell him I'm dead. Tell him anything. But I can't do it."

* * *

He did come, as the girls had known he would. And had asked for her, as Delilah said he would. The Madam said she was occupied, as she said she should, but he said he'd wait.

And wait he did, though, for such a proud man, the general solicitude of the workers and the other patrons must have been dreadfully trying. She watched him, through the peep-hole, his face as impassive as ever as yet another officer tried to buy him a sympathy drink. Finally, she could bear it no longer, and told Enrique to send him up to her room.

Only once they were alone did his façade crack. He pulled her to him, put his head on her shoulder and wept. And wept. And wept. She guided him to the bed and simply held him for what felt like forever. She pulled off his wig, stroked his hair and rocked him, ignoring her own tears that fell onto his shorn head. "You are so kind to me." he said, between the sobs. "You're the dearest friend I've got." She tried to look like that fact made her happy.

She put him back on her roster of regulars. And tried to prepare herself for the next time he decided to try to take a wife.


End file.
